THE MEIRE OF COLLINGTOƲN, NEWLY REVIVED. BEING Very delectable, pleasant, and inoffensive to any Reader.
Compyled, and corrected by P.D.
Printed in the Year, 1662.
THE MEIRE OF COLLINGTOƲN.
1.
AN Hether-man, as I heard say,
Sensyne I think a week or tway,
Came cantly cracking out the way,
none with him but his Meir:
Who being late he bade her ride,
And with a spurre did jag her side,
But ay the silly Meir bade bide,
and further would not steir:
2.
But lay down on the fair high street,
And, shooting out both head and feet,
She meekly spake these words so sweet,
your spurring will not make it.
Oft have I turst your Hether crame,
And born your self right oft-times hame,
With many toom and hungry wame,
when thou hast been well packed.
3.
But now is come my fatall end,
With you I may no further wend,
To my sweet hussie me commend,
and all the rest at hame.
Oft have I born upon my banes
Hath caus'd their beards all wag at anes,
But now for me they may chew stanes,
we'll never meet again.
4.
The silly Carle for woe he grat,
And down upon his arse he sat;
The night was foule, he was all wat
and perished of cauld.
Yet with himself he did advise,
Longer to sit he were not wise,
Then pray'd the silly Meir to rise,
and draw her to some hauld:
5.
But, no more nor she had been dead,
She could remove her from that stead:
When he did preasse to lift her head,
her arse fell down behind.
Then in a grief he did her hail,
And drugged both at mein and tail,
And other parts he could best wail,
then bade her take the wind.
6.
Then did he take forth of a wallat
Some draff, whereon this Meir did mallat,
Which fiercelier gart her lift her pallat
nor all the rest before.
She ate thereof with so good will,
While, I wot well, she had her fill:
When she was full, then she lay still,
and would not eat no more:
7.
But start on foot, as it would be,
None being there but she and he:
The night was cold, and bitterlie
it blattered on of rain.
The Carle was cold, the sooth to say,
And fain he would have been away:
For passed was the light of day,
and night was come again.
8.
Yet with himself he did advise,
Longer to sit he were not wise,
Then pray'd the silly Meir to rise,
and drew her to some hold:
Then, foot for foot, they went together,
But oft she fell, the gate was slidder:
Yet where to take her he did swidder,
while at last, as he would,
9.
He warily did her weise and weild
To Collingtoun Broom, a full-good beild,
And warmest als in all that field,
and there he bade her hide her;
For there if Duncan apprehend thee,
With sore sad stroaks indeed he'll end thee:
I pray thee from his wrath defend thee,
syne he sat down beside her,
10.
And bade good-night, my darling dear,
My bread-winner this many a year:
Alace that I should leave thee here,
so wilsome of thy wain.
Dear Master (quoth this Meir) ye shent you
For my distemper to torment you:
Sober thy kind heart and repent you,
we'll never meet again.
11.
With this they shed, as I heard say,
With many a shout and wail-away,
Referring to a bran-new day,
to make her latter will.
But truely, as the case befell,
(And here the truth I minde to tell)
They never met by twenty ell,
that purpose to fulfill.
12.
By which arose right great dissention,
Much deadly feed, and hot contention:
For many, of a wrong intention,
alledg'd some of her gear;
And they before who never saw her,
Nor in her life did ever knaw her,
That they were of her kin did shaw her,
as after ye shall hear.
13.
The Kairle went home a weary groom,
But she, all night, among the broom,
Lay still, both weary, faint and toom,
while morn that it was day.
Then forth came Duncan on the morrow,
As he had been to ride on sorrow,
With a long sting, which he did borrow,
to chase the Meir away.
14.
He hit her two'r three routs indeed,
And bade her passe sweith from this steed:
If thou bide here i'le be thy dead,
with that gave her a lounder,
While mouth and nose rusht out of blood,
She stackered also where she stood,
For she was tint for fault of food,
and so it was no wonder.
15.
Yet quoth this beast with heavy chear,
I pray you, Duncan, thole me here
Untill the out come of the year,
and then, if I grow better,
I shall remove, I you affure,
Though I were ne're so weak or poor,
And seek my meat through Currie Moor,
as fast as I may swatter.
16.
When he perceived it was so,
That from that part she could not go,
Into a grief he past her fro,
and would no longer tarrie:
But sent Pet Peacock in a fray,
For to have chast this Meir away,
With a long kent, as I heard say,
and in a firrie farie.
17.
Ran to the Mill and fetcht the lowder,
Where with he hit her on the shoulder,
While he dang't all in grush like powder,
he laid it on so sicker:
Then from these bounds he bade her pack her,
Or else he swore that he should wrack her:
Then through the Meadow she did take her,
as fast as she might bicker.
18.
But at the last, this beast, being poor,
Long for to run could not endure,
He did o'retake her in Fordell Moor,
and put her in a Tether,
Then laid upon her hoghs and heels,
Commanding her to leave these fields,
And bade her passe to Listoun shields,
and peule among the Hether.
19.
Yet, quoth this silly simple beast,
I pray you, Pet, hear my request,
Let me remain this night here-East,
among the broom to rest me:
And, on the morn, I thee behight,
Two hours and more before day-light,
I shall to Bavelaw take the flight,
and tell how you have drest me.
20.
Thus Petie, with her words contented,
Did home-ward go, and sore repented
That he this beast had sore tormented,
and in such manner drest her;
And she, both dolorous and wae,
Came poorly creeping down the brae,
With a sore skin, both black and blae,
and there sat down to rest her:
21.
And there, from time that she sat down,
For weatinesse she fell in swown,
And, ere she wakened, John Colhoun
came on her with a blatter,
Accompani'd with old Pakes Patoun
And Richie March, who dwelt in Hatoun,
And laid upon her with a battoun,
while all her harns did clatter.
22.
To whom this beast all wo begon,
Said, loving, honest, good, sweet John,
Let me, but this one night, alone,
and I wish nor I worrie,
Upon the morn, be I alive,
If I dow either lead or drive,
With dogs ye shall me rug and rive,
if I make not for Currie.
23.
Thus he, bewailing her punition,
Did leave her upon that condition,
And she, but any requisition,
came down to the killogie,
Where she thought to have lodg'd all night,
And ease her the best way she might:
But a false lown soon saw that fighr,
whose name was Willie Scrogie,
24.
Who came and took her by the beugh,
And, with a rung both long and teugh,
Laid on her, while she bled enough,
and for dead left her lying
Into a deadly swown and trance,
Bewailing fortunes variance,
Her hard mislucks, and heavy chance,
for help and pitty crying.
25.
But what should any further speaking?
For all her wofull cryes and greeting,
Her loving words and fair intreating,
(these fellows were so tyked)
To her they would make no supplie,
Nor yet let her remaining be
Among them but two dayes or three,
say to them what she liked.
26.
This silly beast, being thus confounded,
So deadly hurt, mis-us'd and wounded,
With miseent dogs so chas'd and wounded,
in end directs a letter
Of supplication, with John Aird,
To purchase license from the Laird,
That she might bide about the yaird
while she grew somewhat better.
27.
But he would no wayes condescend
To go the message she did send,
For fear he should the Laird offend
but bade her send John Durie.
And when they were in all their doubts,
A Messenger, whose name was Couts,
(A vengeance light on all their snouts)
came on her in a furie,
28.
Who did take forth his Sergeants wand,
And gave to her a strait command,
The self same night to leave that land,
or on the morn to burn her.
Then was this beast so sore amazed,
Into his face she glowr'd and gazed,
And wist not well, she was so bazed,
to what hand for to turn her:
29.
But fell down on her silly knees,
And upwards lifting up her eyes,
Said, Cou's, my misery thou sees,
wherefore do not deride it:
But ponder my distrest estate,
How I am handled, and what gate,
For I dow make no more debate:
no longer can I bide it.
30.
Then did she, half-long in despair,
Withdraw her to a place, even where
She thought there should be least repair,
and that none should come near her;
But she got never perfect rest,
Go where she list she was opprest;
Wherefore in end it was thought best
with men away to bear her.
31.
And so Rob Rodger, in an anger,
And Will Thomson, who ay bade hang her,
By sting and ling they did up-bang her,
and bure her down between them
To Duncan's burn, and there, but dread,
They left her, and came home good speed:
Ye would have laughen well, indeed,
so pudled to have seen them;
32.
For Willie Thomson, well I ween,
Fell in a pool o're both the eyne,
And never left a bit of him clean,
so through the dubs him caried:
And Rob, who took in hand to guide him,
O're both his lugs he fell beside him,
Then stole away for shame to hide him,
he was so well begaried.
33.
This being done, but any mair
These two they left her lying there,
Supprest with dolour, grief and care:
who made this protestation,
If any person, far or near,
Within this Parish, would compear,
To lend her but ten shillings here,
upon her obligation.
34.
When the cleck-Geese leave off to clatter,
And Parasites to flietch and flatter,
And Priests their Matine to pitter, patter,
and theeves from theft refrain:
Or yet again, when there shall be
No water in the Ocean sea,
Then she that summe right thankfullie
should pay them home again.
35.
But oh! alace, for all her moan,
In all these parts there was not one
Would condescend to lend that loan
for never one did mean her.
And so, alace, she lay still there
But meat and drink eight dayes and mair:
It would have made a whole heart fair
in that case to have seen her.
36.
Yet honest Antie, in the Place,
Came and beheld her pale-cold face,
And said, for evermore alace,
I see thee so mischieved,
Had I known of thy wearinesse,
Thy misery and great distresse,
I should have helped more or lesse,
and so thy strait relieved:
37.
I should have put thee in the Bank,
Where nettles, grasse and weeds grew rank,
Where well thou might have fill'd thy flank,
and fed among the willies:
Or otherwise, to have rejoic'd thee,
Within the Ward I might have clos'd thee,
Where well thou mightest have repos'd thee
among the Lairds best Fillies
38.
To whom this beast said soberly,
Sweet Mistresse, I most heartfully
Do thank you for your curtesie,
so friendly who hath us'd me,
Who hath so lovingly reported,
And also sweetly me comforted,
And with your almes me supported,
when all my kin refus'd me.
39.
Yet more attoure, since there is none
To whom that I can make my moan,
But, sweet Mistresse, to you alone,
before those villains gore me;
Though I have neither gear nor gains
For to present you for your pains,
If it perturb not all your brains,
yet this one thing do for me,
40.
Go to the Cook with speedy haste,
And run as fast as ye were chaste,
And tell that I am dead almaist,
and if ye can allure him
A dishfull of his broth to send me,
Which from this cold night may defend me,
And if it prove a help to mend me,
upon my word assure him:
41.
When winter cold shall be but frost,
And wives for mastery shall not boast,
And men of Law wait on but cost,
and Usurers take no gains,
Or when ye shall see Pentland hills
Being carried down among Leith Mills,
Then I, with twenty and moe good-wills,
shall please him for his pains.
42.
This message Antie undertook,
And speedily ran to the Cook,
Who found him fitting in the nook:
and, as she was desired,
Requested him right earnestly
To send this silly beast supply,
And he again right thankfully
did as he was required,
43.
And, without grudging or debate,
Did send a meikle charger-plate
Full of good broth hynd down the gate,
and bade her take a care od.
And with her self likewise conclude,
That if she thought it wholsome food,
And if it did her any good,
the morn she should have mair od.
44.
But fra the time this wraiked beast
Perceiv'd the broth go down her breast,
Her tongue from crying never ceast,
till she had made confession.
And so came by Sir Thomas Grant,
About the Shines who oft did haunt,
Who thought if she did witnesse want
to hear't, it were oppression.
45.
Wherefore he said unto this Meir,
I see thy death approacheth near,
Then see that thou be very clear
for death to make thee ready;
For I see, by thy visage pale.,
Nothing but death for thee but fail:
As freely then tell me your tale,
as if I were your deddie.
46.
Then up she hoov'd her hinder heels,
And said, (when she lay in the fields)
Though ye with me should cast the creils,
and of your help refuse me,
I will no wayes at all think shame,
Though it be contrare to a good name,
To you, sweet father, to proclaim
how long time they did use me.
47.
My Master was a simple man,
Who had nothing but what he wan
By cadging hether now and then:
at Bavelaw was his winning.
My hussie likewise was a wife
Ay holding into sturt and strife,
Who had nothing, during her life,
but what she wan by spinning.
48.
And I was towsled up and down,
With hether-cadging to the Town,
For fault of food whiles like to swown,
for all that ever I wan them;
But I think plain necessitie
Was it why so they used me,
Wherefore I think assuredly
I have no cause to ban them.
49.
But yet, because they us'd me so,
I thought to make their hearts as woe,
Once to the Butler I did go,
postponing every perrill,
Where I found rought but two sheep breeds,
Some haggise bags, and two nolt heads,
With two'r three pecks of sowing seeds
well tramped in a barrell.
50.
I took the seeds where I thought best,
With hunger being so sore opprest,
And ate of them while they might last,
when all the rest were fleeping:
Syne privily I did me hy
Into the stable near hand by,
Which is the place wherein I ly,
on hands and feet fast creeping.
51.
But oh, I dought not sleep a wink
For droughth, but came back to the bink,
Where that I took a meikle drink;
but it was very bitter,
I trow my hussie Meg had pisht it,
And up upon the bink had disht it,
Oh if that I had never touch'd it,
it gart me take the sk—.
52.
But good John Smith, my master dear,
Upon the morn, ere day grew clear,
Before his wife he did compear,
and said to her, My Lady,
Rise up. I pray you, with good speed,
Hang on the Sowings: for, indeed
I trow ye be right scant of bread,
some hot thing soon make ready.
53.
The wife, expecting for none ill,
Rose up, his bidding to fulfill,
With merry heart and right good will,
to make for some provision;
But when she mist the seeds away,
She wist not what to do or say,
Cry'd many alas and wail-away,
and said, John, in derision,
54.
I trow ye cry for your disjoon:
When were ye wont to cry so soon?
It is your self this deed hath done,
and that hath made conclusion
Of all the seeds we got in Nortoun:
Or else it hath been gleed Will Mortoun;
Ill be his chance, his hap and fortune
who hath wrought this confusion.
55.
When she was making all this mane,
And had him told that all was gane,
A race to her the Carle hath tane,
as fast as he might bicker,
And hit her such a stroak but dread,
While he thought well she had been dead:
For he had hit her on the head
a sad stroak and a sicker.
56.
So when, with a long heavy rung,
I did perceive my Hussie dung,
I lay stone-still and held my tongue,
and felloun closse I held me:
For, if they had had any feel
That I had made them such a reel,
The one of them, I wot right well
but question, would have fell'd me.
57.
Now this is the worst turn, I say,
That ever I did by night or day;
Wherefore, sweet father, I you pray,
since ye hear my confession,
That, in this place, before I die,
You grant me pardon chearfully:
For that, I wot assuredly,
belongs to your profession.
58.
Then spake this Father venerable
To her this sentence comfortable,
As I a man am trowable,
I say this in submission,
Since ye desire to be remitted
Of all the faults ye have committed,
(Now surely on the head I hit it)
I grant you full remission.
59.
Then was she blyth, and said, I think
That I am one begins to wink,
Sweet father, now take pen and ink,
and write as I command you:
For on my credit I dare swear
It was some good thing brought you here;
Recorded be the time and year,
and day that ever I found you.
60.
And first write, that it pleaseth me,
My body be solemnedlie
Laid in that place, with honesty,
where ly my predecessours.
I nominate my Master John,
And his good-brother Tom Gillon,
Executors to me alone;
these two are no oppressours.
61.
I know they will do nought but right
To me and mine: for many a night
I did them pleasure, as I might,
whereof you may assure them:
For often times I would them take,
Even as a Chap-man doth his pack,
Upon my silly feeble back,
and through the dubs I bure them.
62.
I leave them therefore power all
To meddle with debts great and small,
And with all things in generall
that any way belangs me.
First, I am owing to Andro Rid
At the West-port, for six gray bread
Five shilling, for the which indeed
he and his wife ov'rgangs me.
63.
And, in my great necessitie,
Tom Linkie's wife she furnisht me
As me [...]kle draff, of veritie,
the last day of December,
As, by the last count we did make,
Came to five shilling and a plack,
Well counted before old John Black.
if I do right remember.
64.
There is a cankard Carle siklike,
Whom I have born ov'r many a Tyke,
They call him Jockie in the Dyke:
(I had almost forgot it)
Some nights, when I could not win hame,
To tell the truth I think no shame,
For draff and satlings to my wame
six placks I am addebted.
65.
Now, so far as I understand,
I owe no more in all this land,
But to a silly Collibrand,
Tom Rid, that dwells in Currie:
Upon a time, as he may prove,
An Acheson for a remove:
But it was little for my behove,
I pray nor he may worrie.
66.
There is a man they call John Blair,
Beside the Howps who makes repair,
Him did I serve seven years and mair,
but I saw never his coynzie:
And in my need and povertie,
My sicknesse and calamitie,
That same Carle never visit me;
now pox light on his groynzie.
67.
The thing to me he is addebtit
I purpose not ov'r high to set it,
It is, if I have not forget it,
by our just calculation,
Three pound, wherewith, but dilatours,
I ordain my executours
To gang amongst my creditours,
and, to their contentation,
68.
Off the first end, right chearfullie
Content them all with honestie,
Lest afterward they warie me,
when I may not amend it:
And to such as are destitute
Of worldly goods, I constitute
That all the rest be distribute,
so soon's my life is ended.
69.
I have not meikle mair free gear,
In very deed, to speak of here:
But had I liv'd another year,
if folks had been good willie,
I had had more: yet will I shaw
The thing I have, but any aw,
I have into the Castle law
a Meir, but and a Fillie.
70.
My will is, and I leave the Meirie
To one, they call him John Mackcliric,
Because of foot he is not feirie,
and may not deal with travell:
For in his youth that Carle us'd ay
With wenches for to sport and play,
Wherethrough he hath, this many a day,
been troubled with the gravell.
71.
I leave the Fillie to John Kilmanie,
An honest Master in Balenis,
The which if it be poor and banie,
yet, if it be well used,
It will do good: for oft times said I,
I might have had for it already,
From my sweet masters luckie deddie,
five crowns, which was refused.
72.
My halter and my four new shods,
My turs-rapes, curpell, and my sods,
I list not let them gang to ods,
for that indeed would grieve me;
I leave them therefore to Tom Stean,
Who hath his winning on Smiddie-gre [...]n:
For many a night, right late at even,
that poor man did relieve me.
73.
My mane, my tail, and all my hair
I leave, but any processe mair,
To Cheasly, Nol man and Tom Blair,
three Fishers of vocation:
For, oft times when it would be late,
And might not make no more debate,
These three would lodge me by the gate,
and give me sustentation.
74.
I leave my bonie, round, white teeth
To Willie Frissel into Lieth:
For, on a time when Jennie Keith
with plotted broe demaim'd me,
He fed me in his house, all haile
Eight dayes with good flesh, broe and kaile,
And oftentimes with bread and aile,
where worse chear might have gain'd me.
75.
To honest Antie in Collingtoun-Place,
(My blessing light upon her face)
Who was my friend in every case,
I cannot well forget her,
I leave her therefore, to her part,
My true, my kind and tender heart:
For, into many a grief and smart,
of her I was the better.
76.
I leave the creish within my wame,
With all my heart, to Finlay Grame:
It will be better nor swine-same
for any wramp or meinzie;
First, shear it small, and rynde it syne
Into a kettle clean and fyne,
It will be good against the pine
of any wrest or streinzie.
77.
I leave my liver, puds and trypes
To the two brethren in the Snypes,
Who, though they be but greedy gypes,
yet, being once in Cramend
Storm-sted, and in great misery,
For very hunger like to die,
Did give me lodging chearfully,
and fed me well with Samond.
78.
My two gray eyes, like cristall clear,
Wherefrom great brightnesse did appear,
I leave, in this my Tessment here,
to silly John Mackwhirrie:
For, going wild into the night
Beside Black-bavelaw on the height,
He took me to an aile-house right,
and made me to be merry.
79.
I leave my tongue Rhethoricall,
My dulce voice, sweet and musicall,
And all my Science naturall
to good sweet Master Matho:
For, when I was, with Mortoun Dogs.
Ov'r bladded through their stanks and bogs;
And had stood three dayes in the jogs,
within the town of Ratho:
80.
He came, into a morning soon,
And gave contentment, long ere noon,
To all to whom I wrong had done,
syne sent me with a letter,
With expedition down to Cammock,
Where that, for to refresh my stomack,
I was receiv'd, and fed with drammock,
eight dayes, and with the better.
81.
I leave my head to Sandy Pardie,
A man, whereof I think him worthie:
For once, when that I took the sturdie,
that man, but any grudging,
Made me great succour and supply,
And used me right tenderly,
And gave me food abundantly,
two weeks within his lodging.
82.
I leave to Claud in Hermistoun,
For his bounteth and warisoun,
My hyde, with my brade bennisoun,
to be a pair of bellies;
For, when he found me lying sick
At Gogar bridge, and dought not speak,
Upon his back he did me cleik,
and bore me to Laird Skeldies.
83.
To these fellows of Collingtoun,
Who brought me to contention,
I leave them my black malisoun;
for here I do protest it,
If these men had licentiat me
To have had biding, two nights or three,
Among the broom, where quietly
I might have lyen and rested,
84.
I had not then, with every Lown,
With every Butcher up and down,
Been bladded so from town to town,
nor gotten such oppression;
Nor yet had been in such a blunder,
Nor made of such a worlds wonder;
I wish mae mischiefs nor a hunder
on them and their succession.
85.
Now, sweet Sir Thomas, earnestly
I pray you let me hear and see
If that my Will and Legacie
be done as I directed:
For some suspition even now bred I,
That you are grieved, luckie-deddy,
In that I have dispatch'd already
my goods, and you're neglected.
86.
But surely, Sir, the reason why
That I did so, and set you by,
It was indeed, because that I
knew not that you were needy:
And next again, as reason shawes,
I did it for another cause,
Which is, that all the world knawes
that such men are not greedy.
87.
To whom Sir Thomas soberly
Did answer make, and said, truly
All things, as ye commanded me,
are orderly perfected:
Therefore of that take you no care,
And of that matter speak no mair,
Think on your sicknesse and your sair;
as for your gear, I quite it.
88.
Then for finall conclusion,
This poor beast on her knees fell down,
And said, Sir, for my bennisoun,
since death thinks to betray me:
And since I clearly do perceive
That, of my breath and all the leave
Of the five senses that I have,
death threatens to be wray me;
89.
I you beseech most earnestly,
Of your gentrice and curtesie,
To go to Bavelaw soon for me,
and there, with expedition,
Show to John Smith, my Master dear.
That I am sore-sick lying here,
At point of death, and dow not stear,
and make him requisition
90.
For to come down peremptorly
The morn, about two hours or three,
To Gorgie-Mill, where publikely
I will repeat this sentence,
That, I dare say in verity,
It were great pleasure unto me
That we should meet before I die,
for honest old acquaintance.
91.
Sir Thomas then began to clatter,
And told, that he would no wayes flatter,
But plainly to her show the matter,
syne said to her, My dearie,
Ly still and rest you; for I think
That I shall neither eat nor drink,
Nor with mine eyes shall sleep a wink,
though I were ne're so weary,
92.
While all and whole your last direction
Be done and ended but defection:
Then unto Pluto his protection
he heartfully bequeath'd her,
And ran to Bavelaw with good will,
Brought down John Smith to Gorgie, Mill,
Who, so soon as he came her till,
into his armes he caught her;
93.
And said, alace for evermair
That I should see thee lying there
So comfortlesse, both sick and sair,
so helplesse, poor and needy,
So brnis'd and birs'd, so black and blae,
So ill demaim'd from top to tae;
Alace that I should leave thee sa,
fy, is there no remcedy.
94.
Alace for evermore, alace!
This is a dolorous dolefull case
To me, to see that well favour'd
face and countenance so guided:
Now where are those two clear bright eyne
Into thy head which I have seen,
That now are made so yellow and green?
oh! I cannot abide it.
95.
Oh and alace, and harmes ay!
Dolour and dool fell me this day:
What shall I either do or say?
this is a dolefull meeting.
To whom this Beast, with voice most weak,
Said, Master, my heart do not break,
Let sorrow be, some comfort take,
I dow not bide your greeting:
96.
Your sighs, your sobs, your mourning sair
Doth nothing but augment my care:
Therefore desist and mourn na mair,
with greeting ye are wracked;
And since that ye, withoutten swither,
To visit me are come down hither,
Be blyth, and let us drink together,
for mourning will not make it:
97.
And since, sweet Master, that ye see
That there is nought but death for me,
I pray you take it patientlie,
since there is no redemption:
And I do make you supplication,
To carry home my commendation
To all and whole the Congregation
of Currie, but exemption.
98.
As for my goods, they're else divided,
No part thereof is undecided,
Except my sprit: and that, to guide it,
I leave the King of Farie,
Perpetually for to remain
In wildernesse with his great train,
And never to come back again,
but in his court to tarie.
99.
This speech thus ended, she sat down
All comfortlesse, and fell a swown,
Where she, in that great passion,
both heartlesse, faint and weary,
With a great exclamation
To Pluto making invocation,
Did yeeld her sprit but molestation.
Thus ended John Smith's Meirie.
100.
Now have ye heard the Tragedy,
The latter Will and Legacy
Of this Meir, and the certainty,
when, where, and how she ended:
Which, though it be both groffe and rud,
And of all eloquence denude,
Yet, Sirs, imbrace't as it were go
for I took pains to mend it.
FINIS.